Touch
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Sherlock notices how much John likes to touch him. Nothing deviant or anything; there's just a gentle intimacy between them. Men have always liked touching Sherlock—touching and tasting—but not like this. Not like John Watson. (For Mima, who loves a powerful John.)
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat on the edge of his leather chair, the blood-soaked cuff of his white button-down rolled up to the elbow. John knelt in front of him with a first aid kit, although he kept muttering about "hospitals." Occasionally, Sherlock watched John, pushing and pulling a thin needle through his wound. Other times, he looked at his own hand—more accurately, his right ring finger, the tip of which looked ready to fall off.

"It hurts more when I watch."

John sighed and pulled the needle once again through the thin flesh of Sherlock's hand. "Then stop watching, you clot." He didn't look up at Sherlock. His eyes, dark in the firelight, just stared at the slowly closing wound. His brow wrinkled.

"What did I do?"

John pulled a long, loud breath in through his nose.

"It's not my fault the suspect had a knife."

John tugged on the stitches, maybe a bit harder than necessary, which made Sherlock yelp. John's strong fingers wrapped around his wrist kept him from tugging backwards and probably ripping the meticulous stitches John had sewn to keep Sherlock from losing an appendage.

"You should have waited for me," John said lightly.

"But he was getting away."

"We would have caught up to him, yeah?" John took scissors and finished mending Sherlock's mangled digit. "Don't move. I think I have a splint in the toilet."

Sherlock watched him go, every step forceful, angry, despite the soft tone of his voice—as if Sherlock was a squirrel that might spook at sudden sound. He lifted his hand and looked at it. Of course John would be an artist at stitches, probably wouldn't even leave a scar.

He came back a moment later with a towel and metal splint. Kneeling once again, John used the fabric, damp, to wipe excess blood from Sherlock's palm and wrist. Then, with a doctor's gentle touch, he wrapped gauze around the wound and taped Sherlock's finger to the splint, bent slightly at the end, John said, "to help with the healing."

John took Sherlock's hand in his and kissed his palm. He packed up his first aid kit and stood, but before returning it to its place beneath the bathroom sink, he leaned forward and kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

"Tea?"

"All right."

Sherlock watched the mystery that was Dr. John Watson move to the kitchen.

They'd been flat mates for little over a month. Sherlock was loath to admit the doctor was still something of an oddity—a puzzle Sherlock had yet to put together. He knew John was steadfast and brave. He'd killed a man the very first day they'd met to save Sherlock's life. He put up with Sherlock's utter nonsense around the house. He even took the occasional verbal abuse. Sherlock knew most normal people would be long gone already, scared off by Sherlock's uncaring demeanor and abrupt rudeness.

Instead, John remained, and he did strange things like kiss Sherlock on the forehead. A couple times, he'd even ruffled Sherlock's hair. He touched Sherlock on the arm, the back, the shoulder ... He looked at Sherlock fondly as one might appraise an adorable puppy. And he made Sherlock tea.

John set Sherlock's mug on the table beside his chair and then sat across from him, extending his muscular legs so that his feet rested on Sherlock's chair next to Sherlock's upper thigh.

"Please," John said, "Wait for me next time. Don't go running off after madmen on your own."

"I've been doing it quite successfully for five years."

"Yeah, well, now you have me, and you're well on your way to exhausting my first aid supplies."

Sherlock sipped his tea. It tasted better when John made it.

He slid into cataloguing mode:

 _Dr. John Watson._

 _Ex-Army doctor and brave beyond compare._

 _Small, compact, muscular body. Quick on his feet._

 _Lost._ Or he was when they met. He seemed to have discovered some part of his lost self in 221B. He seemed to have discovered a purpose, at least, in chasing after Sherlock and patching him up when he bled.

"Stop it," John said.

"Stop what?"

"That thing you're doing. It's fine when you do it to murder suspects, but I don't like when you do it to me." He rocked his sock-clad feet back and forth, his arches brushing the side of Sherlock's leg. "Obviously, the first time was amazing, but I think we know each other well enough now for you to stay out of my head. And you should go rinse that shirt, by the way, or you'll never get the blood out."

"I have others."

John smiled softly. "I know. Your wardrobe probably cost more than my medical degree."

Sherlock could feel his own pulse throbbing beneath the splint. Maybe it was the loss of blood—more likely his endless curiosity with John Watson—that made him ask, "Why do you stay?"

John seemed to understand without further extrapolation. Then again, he was one of the only people who seemed to understand Sherlock at all. "I can't afford to move."

Sherlock pouted behind his teacup.

John smiled and kicked his leg. "Because I like it here. And if I left, who's going to patch up all your reckless injuries?"

For an hour or so, John read a book while Sherlock organized his Mind Palace. He worked hard on the room labeled "John Watson," and some part of him suspected it would never be complete.

John yawned and stood, announcing he was off to bed. Before heading upstairs, though, he did that thing he did sometimes—ruffled Sherlock's hair. "I'll check the stitches before I leave for work in the morning, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, so deep in his mind that he barely registered the sound of John going upstairs, wishing him a good night's rest.

* * *

There had been many men in the life of Sherlock Holmes. He was not ignorant of the way he looked, the way he sounded and dressed. He utilized all attributes with success at crime scenes and even while charming possible suspects. Since his teen years, when he'd grown five inches, lost the baby fat, and developed the seductive rumble that was his speaking voice, men had flocked to him. At first, he'd been open to exploration. Even his old friend from uni, Seb, had one night invaded Sherlock's room with a whispered begging of "touch" and "taste."

That was until Sherlock used his intellect to dismantle Seb's insecurities and his father's infidelity. After that, they'd never consummated Seb's desperate wishes. In fact, Seb had grown to hate Sherlock after that, unlike John, who'd been fascinated the first time Sherlock had deduced him.

John who called him things like amazing, brilliant, and once, perhaps on accident, _beautiful._

Men of all ages always wanted to touch Sherlock—touch and fondle and tug his hair and suck dark marks on his throat. Because of his harsh demeanor, it seemed they thought he wanted things rough. And definitely no cuddling after.

He let random sex happen for a while, but Seb had unknowingly taught him an important lesson: Sherlock had armor against such things. He had defenses, and those defenses were his intellect and sharp tongue. Sometimes, he didn't mind the men who attacked his body with such sexual fervor. Other times, if not in the mood, he just said something scathing, which sent some men dashing away and others into a fury. How many punches had he taken thanks to other men's bruised pride?

Then, there was John.

John, who took care of him.

John, who laughed when Sherlock was socially inept.

John, who touched gently, softly, with graceful doctor's hands.

Sprawled out on the couch in pajamas and a dressing gown, Sherlock reached for his phone and typed: "Why do you touch me so much?"

It was almost half an hour before Sherlock received a response from John: "Because I'm your doctor, and you insist on hurting yourself."

It was a viable answer but not quite enough for the ever-curious Sherlock Holmes who, as the favorite child, had never been taught proper boundaries. "You touch me when I'm not injured," he texted.

"Do you want me to stop touching you?" John replied.

Sherlock typed, "No."

Then, his screen lit up: "All right, then. Shall I pick up Chinese on the way home tonight?"

"Yes, but stay away from the takeaway around the corner. Go to the restaurant by your office."

"Do I dare ask why?"

"Based on the off-white hue of the chef's sclera at our usual takeaway, the man is suffering an early bought of influenza."

There was a pause in the text communication before John's response lit the phone: "Sherlock Holmes. You brilliant, beautiful thing."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock spent the entire day frustrating himself. He was accustomed to ten working fingers; having nine put him at a thorough disadvantage. He dropped his tea once. He fumbled with his microscope. He almost spilled a test tube filled with a compound of his own invention that would have burnt a hole through the thick, wooden tabletop and possibly straight through Mrs. Hudson's ceiling. John would not have liked that.

As the day turned toward dinnertime, he ultimately gave up on trying to function. It was the shower that made him admit defeat. Yes, he successfully washed himself, but that was with his hand wrapped in a plastic bag and a now bruised elbow, what with all the one-handed flailing it took to simply wash his hair. No, he gave up. He slumped on the couch in an untucked light blue button-down and black trousers with bare feet. He pouted horribly.

He smelled the Chinese food even before John opened the front door downstairs. He heard John stomp his feet which made Sherlock realize it was raining outside. Drops fell like little musical notes against the windowpane, underscoring the sound of John's feet on the steps. The door swung open, and there stood Sherlock's Dr. Watson, still smelling of antiseptic and rubber gloves. The entire bouquet was frankly alarming in its sensuality: Chinese food, hospital, and _John._

John as an entity smelled like laundry detergent, coffee, and, today, damp wool, thanks to the rain outside. Sherlock had catalogued all of John's varying scents since he'd moved in. He smelled differently in the morning than he did at night. He smelled different before dates versus nights when he went out with Stamford. Sherlock worried, sometimes, that cataloguing John had pushed important crime scene details from his Mind Palace. Other times, he felt thankful for the unexpected distraction.

John's eyes warmed when he saw Sherlock, and he smiled. "Evening." He tilted his head. "You've washed. You didn't get your bandage—"

"No, John, I didn't get my bandage wet." He rolled his eyes. "It's been a horrific day. Who knew one finger was so important? I've a mind to tear the stitches out."

John moved to the kitchen. "And bleed all over the house? You make enough of a mess as it is." He paused. "Sherlock, what's in this test tube, and why is it smoking?"

"Don't. Touch. It."

He heard John sigh before setting bags on the counter. "It's a good thing you're gorgeous."

Sherlock shot forward on the couch. His bare feet smacked across the floor until he stood six inches from John's turned back. "That. Why do you say things like that?"

"Because if you weren't gorgeous, it would be much easier to get angry with you." He slowly unpacked their food. "Hungry? I bet you haven't eaten all day."

Sherlock wanted to tug his hair out, much like he often did when surrounded by idiots—except John was not an idiot. John was playing some sort of game, and Sherlock didn't know the rules. "I demand an explanation!"

John held a carton of fried rice. The evil little man smiled. "You said you wanted Chinese for supper."

"Don't be dull."

John's smile turned to a smirk as he set down the food and removed his jacket. He hung it over the back of a kitchen chair, careful to avoid the smoking test tube. He looked up at Sherlock. Then, quite suddenly, he reached his hands out and wrapped his palms around the outsides of Sherlock's hips.

"Is this about the text message you sent today?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and memorized the tight, warm feel of John's hands on a new part of his body.

"You like when I touch you?"

His eyes opened a bit when John rubbed his nose across the side of his jaw.

"Hmm, Sherlock?"

"You're not … I mean to s-say …."

John nudged his nose under Sherlock's jaw and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. "I've never heard you stutter."

"I didn't …" He wrapped his fingers in the front of John's sweater and promptly hissed and pulled away.

John let go of his hips and took Sherlock's hand. He studied Sherlock's wrapped finger. "I should probably have a look at that actually. Change the bandages." With his hand on Sherlock's elbow, he led him to his chair. "Be a moment."

Sherlock's skin still burned where John had kissed it. He put his hand up and touched the place to see if John's lips alone had left a scorched mark.

When John returned from the bathroom, he pushed Sherlock's knees apart and sat on the floor between his legs. He dug around in the first aid kit before holding his hand up. Sherlock laid his knuckles against John's palm and allowed himself to be the dutiful patient.

John's touch, as always, was gentle and calm. He unwrapped the binding that covered the splint and inspected the bandage, the stitches. He muttered about how everything looked all right. Meanwhile, Sherlock stared at John's handsome face, rugged and somehow soft in the dim light of their living room.

Before John could re-tape the splint, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. John's reaction was immediate, his tongue pressing forward to open Sherlock's mouth until Sherlock's mind spun with the taste of John Watson—coffee, black. John's hand grasped to the back of Sherlock's hair and pulled him closer until Sherlock almost fell from his chair and into John's lap. To catch himself, he grabbed the armrests and actually yelled from the pain of his torn finger.

John pulled back. "Shit." He reached for Sherlock's long-fingered hand and cradled it in his own. "We can't have you tearing the stitches." With his free hand, John ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone and kissed him once, tenderly, on the mouth. "What we need to do …" He licked his upper lip. "Is keep your hand from moving." He stood and pulled Sherlock up with him. The dark glimmer in his eye made John seem much, much taller. "Oh, my pretty pet." He leaned their foreheads together. "Tell me you like when I touch you. Will you tell me that?"

"Yes, John."

"Will you let me touch you some more?"

Sherlock nodded as he breathed John's breath.

"Come here, love." He was vigilant of Sherlock's busted finger as he led the other man down the hall to the bedroom. He only let go once they stepped inside, his eyes combing the room. "Now, we just need to make sure you don't move that one hand, but for aesthetics …" He reached for two of Sherlock's dressing gowns. "Might as well make sure you can't move either of your hands." He pulled the sashes from each and turned around, biting his bottom lip to subdue a grin that sent a rush of shivers up Sherlock's spine.

"Oh," he said, surprised by the low purr of his own voice.

"God, that voice." John hurried toward him and kissed him with all ten of his working fingers tangled tightly in Sherlock's hair. "Lay down." He gestured to the bed, and Sherlock scooted backwards, right to the center, ignoring the pain that shot up his wrist when his finger caught in the fabric.

John stood above him, staring. The two rope-like pieces of fabric from Sherlock's robes hung from his hands. After what seemed like hours—probably more like ten seconds—John straddled Sherlock's waist and gently, so gently, lifted his arms. He tied both Sherlock's wrists to the top of the bed, and well, doctor did know best, because Sherlock found his finger was out of harm's way.

Job done, John leaned back on his heels. "I'm going to take you apart, Sherlock Holmes." He pulled his jumper off over his head before going to work on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

However, John moved with an infuriating slowness that had Sherlock tugging at his binds.

John noticed and put his hands on Sherlock's triceps. "It's for your own safety." He winked.

"John."

Something in Sherlock's voice made John stop unbuttoning his shirt, stop kissing every inch of revealed skin as he went. "Sherlock?"

"I don't understand what you see in me."

John's brow furrowed, so Sherlock continued.

"You're not like the other men I've been with. You're not insecure or desperate. You're not cruel. Logically, you require a partner who is loving, kind, and affectionate. As I am none of those things, I feel compelled to ask what you see in me."

John rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock. You really are an idiot."

"I beg to differ."

John chuckled and shook his head. "What do I see in you? Well, in a very literal sense …" He ran his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip. "I see a gorgeous creature I'd like to fuck senseless." He leaned down and whispered, his lips catching on the edge of Sherlock's ear. "I'd like to have you until you can't remember your name, let alone however many kinds of ash there are. I'd like to have you until you forget every tosser who's come before me." He ran his hand down Sherlock's chest and across his abdomen. "I'll kiss you until your lips go numb, touch you until you tire of it."

"I'll never tire of it," Sherlock whispered.

"What do I see in you, beyond this body that's just _begging for it_?" he growled. "I see brilliance and a kindness that you try so very hard to hide. I see a maniac I would chase down any dark alley. I see a man I would die for to keep safe, a man I would kill for to keep safe."

"You've already done that."

John's mouth closed over his neck and sucked. "I'd do it a million times over. Now, stop talking." He covered Sherlock's mouth with his while his hands unbuttoned the rest of Sherlock's shirt and shoved the fabric aside.

With his hands tied to the bed, Sherlock did feel a certain level of annoyance. He couldn't touch John the way John always touched him. He couldn't do anything at all except feel pleasure.

After removing Sherlock's trousers, John started by using his mouth, which was almost enough to push Sherlock right over the edge—which John apparently sensed, because he would stop suddenly and flash an impish grin whenever he pulled his mouth away.

"Damn it, John!"

"I'm not even close to finishing you off, sweetheart." He smiled some more. "And it's no wonder your ego is so big, what with …" He lowered his mouth again, and Sherlock's lower back arched off the bed.

By the time John lifted Sherlock's knees over his shoulders, Sherlock was a boneless mess of sweat and saliva. Breathing was but a series of gasps in between his parted lips as they made love, but soon, Sherlock wasn't alone in his blissed-out state. He opened his eyes to find John above him, moving with a slow, affectionate rhythm.

The same affection John used whenever he touched Sherlock.

Sherlock wanted to reach up and touch John's face, but with his hands tied, he let his eyes do the caressing. He remembered every wrinkle, every quiver, and filed it in his Mind Palace. He remembered the sound John made as he came, just before Sherlock's own vision went white with oodles of foreplay-induced euphoria that magnified his orgasm to the point of partial blindness. When the little white dots stopped dancing in front of his eyes, he looked up to find John staring down at him, grinning.

"How's your finger?" he asked.

"It wants to touch you."

John reached above Sherlock's head and untied him. "Careful now, love."

Sherlock wrapped John in his arms. John nuzzled his face against the side of Sherlock's neck. His tongue occasionally reached out to taste his sweat, which made Sherlock twitch and John laugh.

"The touching for the past month …" Sherlock said.

John sucked Sherlock's earlobe. "Just a round-about way to end up here. Although half of it was purely medical, you klutzy git."

"I am not klutzy."

"Prone to injury then."

"Dangerous lifestyle."

"Dangerous lifestyle," John agreed.

"It's about to get more dangerous once this finger has healed."

John lifted his head and leaned up on one elbow. "Oh?"

"You'll find the room in my Mind Palace labeled 'Sex' is very extensive and creative."

John chuckled against his shoulder before moving his mouth down and licking the sweat from Sherlock's chest until Sherlock, giggling, begged him to stop.

"I like when you beg," John said.

"I beg you to bring me Chinese food."

"All right, princess." John jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of tight, black pants. "But I'm eating mine off your body."

Sherlock Holmes may never figure out the mystery of John Watson—not exactly—but he decided then and there he wouldn't mind giving it a shot. For the rest of his life.


End file.
